


gold dust.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mostly JC. mostly to get it out of my head. mostly as-is, where-is. and that's mostly it.</p><p><i>we make it up as we go along.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	gold dust.

He's not sure what time it is; knows it has to be late from the light that filters into the room, grey and silent and still. He shifts carefully, slowly, with the practiced grace of someone being careful not to disturb the sleeping form beside them, and JC hates that this is something he's become good at. He hates every carefully measured movement he makes, rolling away from sleep-warm skin in tiny increments, holding his breath until his chest is tight and aching and blueblack sparkles pulse dully behind his eyes.

It feels like time has become something slow and crawling, something skittering just below his skin, twisting around his nerves and drawing them up into a slick, tight knot in his belly. His legs slip over the side of the bed and the sudden shock of carpet beneath his bare feet sets his heart stuttering wildly in his chest.

The room is all cold shadows and sharp moonlit angles; there's nothing romantic or mystical about the way his clothes look lying abandoned on the floor in the gloom, and he closes his eyes as he dresses silently, his fingers knowing this choreography all too well.

But earlier, he thinks, earlier it was different. Then it was moonlight on skin, pale and soft beneath his fingertips, silver glinting back at him from eyes half-hooded in sleepy pleasure. A warm, wet mouth on his, teeth and tongue and whispered words trailed along the curve of his spine, filling him with heat and a bittersweet ache. He presses two fingers to his collarbone, a tiny sting where he knows the flesh is already stained bruisepurple in the perfect shape of a mouth. His belly curls, sharp and sour, because each time, he thinks, each and every time is always meant to be the last. It's getting harder and harder to pretend when he knows what he's hiding beneath is starting to show only too clearly on his face.

The last of the buttons on his shirt, and his fingers feel thick and clumsy, his skin stretched too thin and too tight, and he aches all over as he crouches down to pick up his shoes. Words dance through his head; his voice, Chris' voice, twisting and tumbling and turning, blending into one, and it's the same old thing, over and over. The same words, the same excuses, delivered as smoothly and crisply as an actor reading them from a creased and battered script.

He pauses at the door for barely a moment, just to breathe. To let out the air in his lungs, trapped and stale and held for far too long. He hears the soft rustle of sheets behind him, an echo of his exhaled breath, and all he has to do is turn the handle and walk out. That's all he has to do. But he stops and turns around, because he can't.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and knows that's not nearly enough. "I'm. I'm sorry." He believes the words as he says them, sees them clearly in his head, and knows they'll be there until the door closes behind him, and then they'll start to fade again. But this time. This time. "I'll tell him tonight," he says, clenching his fists around the words to stop them from slipping away once more.

Lance's voice is quiet, tired, his words laced through with something JC recognises as resignation. "No you won't," he says, softly.


End file.
